


[I came to tell you no one is coming]

by neuroglam



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Coming of Age, Day 3: Support, M/M, Mentions of sex work, Phichit Week, Retirement, acing out what you don't have the space to say, cross-dressing, don't do this at home kids, your author is a sucker for savior fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 06:20:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10735899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neuroglam/pseuds/neuroglam
Summary: "...the biggest issue for most athletes is you spend a third of your life not preparing for the next two-thirds. One day your entire way of life comes to an end. It’s a kind of death. You just have to go through it and figure it out."~Andre Agassi





	[I came to tell you no one is coming]

“So…” Phichit bites his lip and leans on the door to Celestino’s office, sports bag with the last of his things from the locker hanging over one shoulder.

Celestino doesn’t know what to say, either. Phichit was a boy the first time Celestino saw him. Now he’s a young man, first under the cut for the 2022 Winter Olympics and too disillusioned to keep trying.

“Let me walk you out,” Celestino says and gets up, picking up his car keys. “Buy you lunch?”

“Yeah.”

Rationally, they both knew this day was coming—they even knew it’d be today. Still, the moment feels unreal.

They walk out, Celestino slightly ahead, Phichit following, and settle in Celestino’s white Toyota. It’s so normal—Celestino driving, Phichit in the passenger seat—and at the same time, it’s strange, knowing that it’s the last time.

Celestino starts up—they’re heading to the small Korean place where they always go, there’s no need for a discussion.

Phichit is quiet, picking at the hem of his sweatshirt.

Celestino wonders what to say. “Can I give you a ride to the airport on Thursday?” he asks, and doesn’t know why.

Phichit is silent, looking ahead. There’s almost no traffic, this time of the day. They pass by the same businesses, with the same ad signs—it’s just that today, for some reason, Celestino notices them.

“I don’t want to go,” Phichit says in a small voice.

This is news to Celestino. Phichit has prepared this move for the past month: sorting through belongings, shipping boxes, fighting with his landlady over the rent deposit. The hamster aquarium is now in Kathy’s room—she’s fourteen and from Taiwan, and works harder than any other skater Celestino’s ever coached—and loves Phichit’s hamsters as much as she loves K-pop.

Phichit had seemed glad that the hamsters are staying with her.

And here Celestino is—Ciao Ciao, now that Phichit’s started it, everyone calls him fucking _Ciao Ciao—_ thinking of hamsters.

“I don’t want you to go either,” he says, realizing how much he means it only when it leaves his mouth.

It’s been eight years. They’ve been living in each other’s pockets, coach and skater; keeping the same schedule, obsessing over the same programs. Rooming together when they travel, or when Phichit needs a place to stay in between leases.

He’ll miss Phichit. He hasn’t been with any other athlete this long.

“Drive to your place,” Phichit breaks the silence, eyes on the side of Celestino’s face. It’s not a request, or a question.

 _I’ve got no food there_ , Celestino should say. _Let’s_ _grab something first?_ Or, more importantly: _Are you sure?_

He says neither of these things—just turns so he can get on the highway. Phichit is not sixteen anymore. If he says it, he’s sure.

“How did you know you wanted to coach?” Phichit asks as they merge into the traffic.

The question gives him pause. It’s not like Phichit—bubbly and happy-go-lucky—to suddenly be this serious and morose. Celestino changes the lane. He’s honored Phichit trusted him with this, so he resolves to be honest. “I didn’t have a job, and it was something I could do. So I did it. Then I figured it was not too bad, and it was too late to start anything from scratch anyway.” There’s no magical “calling” story behind his career choices. You’re supposed to profess a grand passion for it—athletes like that in a coach—but the truth is, he just… fell into it, and stayed.

Phichit looks at him almost accusingly.

Celestino gets it: he’s got no directions to discovering “one’s true passion” that he can give him. He’s got no advice, only questions. “I thought you were going to take time to figure yourself out?”

Phichit watches the cars they pass on the highway. “I’m scared,” he admits quietly.

Celestino hadn’t been scared, back then. The economy was better: one _could_ take time off and trust that something would work out. And if all else failed, there was always the factory where his dad used to work. He wishes he could help, he really does, but his experience only goes so far. For one, Celestino’s got an EU passport, Phichit doesn’t. Back when Celestino retired, skating was different, too. He’s got more medals to his name than Phichit, even though a triple axel was a big deal back when he used to compete and Phichit’s got two quads. It’s a different world. So reassurance is the only thing he’s got.

Celestino pats Phichit’s leg, and hopes it comes across reassuring.

Thinks. He’d been Okay because he’d felt he’d had a fallback option.

Maybe this is what’s needed—what he can do: be an option.

He keeps his hand on Phichit’s leg until he needs to shift gears and get off the highway.

  


  


The Toyota meanders through sleepy residential neighborhoods, quiet and empty in the middle of the day.

They stop in front of Celestino’s house. Phichit’s been here before—this part, too, is familiar. Like always, Celestino walks ahead, unlocks the door. Moves out of the way for Phichit.

Like always, Phichit takes off his shoes and puts on the guest slippers.

“Drink?” Celestino says as they get to the living room.

Phichit shakes his head. “Maybe a glass of water,” he says as he walks ahead, shamelessly, and opens the door to the bedroom.

Water it is. When Celestino comes back with it, he finds Phichit already naked, stretched out on the bed. So much for subtlety.

Celestino didn’t expect guests, so he hasn’t tidied—the bed is still unmade, his dirty socks are on the floor. Phichit’s clothes have joined the pile on The Chair. And Phichit—lovely, fit, twenty-three-year-old Phichit—is lounging in the middle of it all with the utter unselfconsciousness of the lovely, fit, and twenty-three.

“Your mattress is nice,” he says and stretches, crossing his hands under his head.

Celestino doesn’t even pretend he’s not standing there, looking.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says and hands him the glass of water. “Just enjoying the view.”

Phichit rises to drink. Celestino sits next to him, fully dressed, wondering at how it feels so natural for the two of them to be here, like this, when until half an hour ago they’d never even mentioned going anywhere not strictly professional. Ciao Ciao cares—he’s always cared, of course he has—he’s just never allowed himself to care quite like this.

He takes Phichit’s glass away, then sits against the headboard fully dressed.

Phichit cuddles up next to him, one hand pulling on his shirt.

“Later,” Celestino says. “We’ve got time.” Also, Phichit can probably come seven times in a row. Ciao Ciao can’t, not any longer.

He wraps an arm around Phichit and pulls him close. “This is quite lovely,” he says. It’s true—it’s nice just being like this, cuddling: Phichit’s naked leg over his, Phichit’s arm across his chest, his head on Celestino’s shoulder. Celestino’s got a view all the way down his back and over the swell of his ass: there’s definitely worse places to be. “I think I’d like to take my time.”

“Will you kiss me?” Phichit says, looking up.

Celestino kisses his forehead first—it’s Phichit, his trainee. He’s too used to disciplining himself into not thinking about him _that_ way. But Phichit’s having none of it: he tilts up his head to find Celestino’s mouth. For a moment, Celestino expects to mauled in an explosion of youthful passion, but no: Phichit touches their lips together, then makes a little happy rumble in his throat, just staying like that: eyes closed, thick dark lashes resting on his cheeks. It’s the absolute sweetest kiss Celestino’s had in the last fifteen years—at least.

He returns the favor, softly nipping and sucking, burrying one hand in his hair. It’s wonderful, really, supporting Phichit’s head with one hand and listening to his little moans.

Eventually, he pulls back and leans on the headboard with a deep, satisfied sigh.

Phichit nuzzles closer.

“You could start as an assistant coach, with me, to build experience.” Celestino muses, voice calm and relaxed. “Part-time, if you like. Sign up for a degree at Michigan State alongside.” So far he’s only trained skaters, not coaches, but how hard can it be? Coaching is coaching: you define a set of skills to be mastered, break them up into steps, then assign steps to be practiced in order.

“I’m not very good at school.” Phichit mumbles into his shoulder.

“School is doing things on a schedule,” Celestino shrugs. “You’re good at doing things on a schedule.” Any professional athlete would be.

“No—you’re good at _getting me_ to do things on a schedule.”

Celestino rubs his shoulder. “No reason I should stop, then.”

Phichit raises his head to look at him. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Celestino figures he wants to say something like, “You’d really do that?”

The answer is yes—Celestino _would_ really do that. “You could move in here. I’ll take care of meals, rides, general scheduling.” It’s not like it’ll be a hardship—or that they aren’t doing a lot of it already. They’ve spent so much time together over the last eight years that there’s probably spouses who see each other less. “It’s an option.” Celestino shrugs. Then he clarifies, because he thinks he should: “And it doesn’t even require you to sleep with me if you don’t want to.”

“What if I want to?” Phichit says coyly. “I mean, not if you’d rather not, obviously…”

“I can do way, way worse than a beautiful, brilliant young man I get along with and genuinely like.”

Phichit beams at him. There’s no other word for it, really.

It dawns on Celestino that he’s somehow managed to get himself into a relationship. Well. He _could_ do worse.

  


Phichit stays in his bed all the way until Thursday (with a short break to drop by his studio and get his suitcases). Like the lucky middle-aged sod he is, Celestino pulls out all the stops: he cuddles, kisses, pets, makes his jaw sore from eating ass. He’d like to think he did well. He’d like to think Phichit liked it.

Phichit is quiet on the way to the airport, but hopefully he fees a little better now—at least, a little less scared. Feels like he’s got options: like whatever happens, he can go back to his dad’s factory—so to speak.

Celestino buys him a coffee and waits with him; hugs him when it’s time to pass security. Tells him to call when he feels like it.

  


  


Phichit doesn’t call.

  


  


The first two weeks, Celestino tells himself to chill and to give the boy space.

Then he tells himself that he did tell Phichit to call _when he feels like it_ , and that if Phichit doesn’t feel like it, Celestino should let go.

Then it’s a month and a half after Phichit left, and Celestino’s worried. He remembers how Phichit’s always on his phone and googles his Instagram. There’s a single picture there, dated three weeks ago, of a generic beach (sand, sea, horizon line, three fluffy clouds) captioned, “Heading for a well-deserved rest.”

Well. Okay.

Then it’s two months, and Celestino’s worried more.

He tells himself that Phichit’s an adult. Their misguided three-day romp notwithstanding, their relationship is a professional one and it has run its course. It is, literally, none of Celestino’s business to worry.

He worries nonetheless.

In the end, he gives in. He asks Kathy if she knows anything. She shrugs—Phichit has no reason to account himself to a fourteen-year-old—but pulls out her cell-phone and does a lot of fancy clicking. “He’s turned off geotags,” she says apologetically, and Celestino needs to google geotags to figure out what she means.

Yuuri’s got no idea either, save for how Phichit called a month ago and said he’s fine and lounging at the beach. Yuuri, himself, is doing well. He’s planning a wedding in five months, and Celestino is invited: maybe he’ll see Phichit there.

Celestino says congratulations, and thanks, and digs around for which beach. He only gets a citty: Pattaya.

He e-mails Kathy to say he’ll be away for two weeks and buys a ticket.

He arrives and checks into his hotel, thankful for the AC after a sweaty cab ride, and realizes he’s got no clue what he’s doing. He does the only thing he _can_ do: tries to learn the city, the beach, and the night clubs. Maybe someone’s seen him.

In the end, he doesn’t find Phichit—Phichit finds _him_ , in a cheap bar on the not-so-nice side of town, nursing a knock-off Jack Daniels. “People said a _farang_ ’s been asking after me,” Phichit says as he pulls out a chair and settles across him with a flick of his wig. “An Italian one. With a ponytail.”

Celestino takes a moment to look, because everything about Phichit is beautiful, down to the stripper heels and the tiny leopard-print number that barely covers his ass. There’s make up, and fake lashes, and a glinting dangly golden chain that drops between a set of padded tits. Celestino’s brain stutters, flashing back to tiny dark nipples. Then he blinks and notices the details: how Phichit’s nails are a little bitten. How he looks kind of peaky.

Phichit is an adult, and Phichit’s free to make his choices—but this doesn’t make sense, even if the shadow around Phichit’s eyes is way too expertly applied for this to be a recent affectation. Phichit is a rich boy, with opportunities and open-minded parents. If he’d wanted to cross-dress, or to party, or to have a proper sex-change, his parents would have paid. And if _this_ is what he wants to do, there’s no reason to do it on the wrong side of party town, and not in a high-end bar in Bangkok.

A waitress comes by and Phichit orders something in Thai—Celestino realizes how unused he is to hearing the soft, lilting language come out of his mouth. For some reason, this makes him feel a little guilty.

They look at each other over the table.

Phichit pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one.

The coach in Celestino bristles up—but that’s not who they are to each other. Not any more.

Phichit puffs out thick streams of smoke until his order comes. It turns out to be some kind of cocktail and a fruit platter, and half a bottle of Jack Daniels with a small bucket of ice.

Phichit refills his tumbler—the Jack now tastes like it’s legit—and sips on his own cocktail. Pokes on a piece of honeydew and plops it in his mouth in a way that tells Celestino there’s one thing he shouldn’t be worried about, and that’s whether his former protege earns well. But it still doesn’t make sense: Phichit might be good at this, but he doesn’t even look that happy. Why is he here?

“You’re beautiful,” Celestino says, because he’s not going to lecture or demand explanations.

Phichit makes eye contact, for the first time tonight looking slightly ashamed.

It’s not what Celestino wants.

“Look,” Phichit starts before Celestino has a chance to open his mouth. “I appreciate that you meant well, and it was nice, for three days, to imagine it could happen. But… I can’t. I don’t… really read. My grades are absolute crap. My parents paid this private high school to graduate me, and the school agreed so they could brag with an actual athlete—that’s the “tuition” I went for during off-season.” Phichit lights another cigarette and sips on his cocktail. “On my own merits, I probably wouldn’t have finished eight grade." He stops, and takes a deep drag of his cigarette. "So." He exhales. "I’m sorry to disappoint you and thank you for the offer.”

“It’s still open,” Celestino says. “You don’t have to go to school, or sleep with me, or anything—not unless you want to.” He doesn’t press it, but there’s more: it’s not that uncommon for athletes to have learning disabilities. Whatever Phichit’s got, it can be tested for. Universities know how to deal with it these days: there’s learning tutors, extra time on tests, accommodations. Medication, if you need it. “If you decide you want to be my assistant coach, give me a call.” He hopes it comes across non-judgmental.

“That’s all you’re going to say? Give me a call?” Phichit looks at him, accusing.

What does Phichit want him to say? He doesn't know what the right thing to say is.

“Do you need money?” Celestino asks.

Phichit shakes his head. “I haven’t touched it, but… my parents sent me some.”

“I take it they don’t know?”

“No. They think I’m renting a condo and taking a break.” Yuuri doesn’t know either, Celestino now knows. And neither do Phichit’s other skating contacts.

Suddenly, he’s grateful that Phichit decided to meet him. It makes him feel honored, trusted. And like he should vindicate that trust.

“What _do_ you need?” Celestino asks softly. There _must_ be something he can give, even if it’s just company or an attentive ear.

Phichit looks down at the table to where he’s twirling his cigarette packet on one corner. The silence stretches.

“For someone to see,” Phichit says quietly. Celestino gives him time, but he doesn’t continue.

“What do you need them to see?” he asks.

“I need them to- stop throwing money at everything so they can avoid-” Phichit’s voice breaks as he spits it out. He covers his mouth with a hand. “To stop- pretending that everything’s OK and trying to sweep it under the carpet, or giving advice so they don’t have to really listen-”

There’s tears.

“Let’s get out of here,” Celestino says and gets up. “How much do I owe for this?”

“It’s Okay, I can pay tomorrow-”

“No.” Celestino goes for his wallet and pulls out a wad of cash. “Will this be good? Cover the bill plus some tip?”

“Yeah.”

“Alright, then,” he says and tosses it on the table. “Let’s go, now.”

It’s weird, having his arm around Phichit like this. For one, he’s so much taller on his hooker heels—almost of a height with Celestino.

Heat hits them as they leave the air-conditioned club. Phichit wipes at his runny make-up with a tissue. It’s not long before a cab materializes without them even having to call for it, the driver probably well-trained at spotting drunk foreigners with a pretty girl—or not quite girl—under their arm.

They climb into the back seat.

Phichit curls into him. Celestino keeps his arm around his shoulder.

Celestino gives the name of his hotel. “When I offered you the coaching job and said that you could go to school,” he says, looking at traffic and street vendors over the crown of Phichit’s head, “I didn’t mean to dismiss how you felt. Or to avoid dealing with how hard and scary it is.”

They wind among back streets, still lively at this hour.

“I meant for you to feel safer, know you have a fall-back option. Not to avoid listening and trying to find what would really make you happy.” He holds Phichit closer, his fingers tangled in the wig even though it’s not Phichit’s real hair. “I’m sorry. I should have asked for what you needed instead of assuming.”

Phichit looks up at him, then, his eyes wide—and Celestino finds himself mauled: pressed into the sticky faux leather of the seat, sixty kilos of firm, fit skater straddling him and biting on his lips, stinking horribly of cigarettes.

The cab driver acts like nothing’s happening—which, to him, it probably isn’t. Still, Celestino can’t help pulling down on the leopard mini dress as it rides up.

“I don’t give a fuck about the dress,” Phichit says into his mouth. His hands are cupped around Celestino’s jaw, holding him in place as he nips on his mouths. “And I’m sorry, too. For assuming that you’re like my parents.”

It’s a fair assumption, Celestino thinks. Most people walk around thinking people are like their parents. “I care about you,” he says. “In the end, I want you to do something that makes you fulfilled. It doesn’t matter to me if it’s coaching, or school, or sex work—or all of them at the same time.”

“Will you sleep with me tonight?” Phichit asks. “And kiss me. I like how you kiss me.”

Celestino’s glad to hear this. He’d certainly worked hard enough during those three days in Detroit. If Phichit liked it… it’s nice.

“Yeah, I’ll kiss you. Everywhere, as much as you want.” He pets the wig, even though it’s silly. “And tomorrow morning, you and I are going to have a talk. A real, serious one. And you’ll tell me what you want so we can see about how you can get it.”

“Fuck if I know what I want.” Phichit relaxes on top of him.

“Then we’ll generate ideas.” They’ve done that before—that’s how Phichit’s programs got made. Eventually, something always works out.

“Ciao Ciao,” Phichit says in a small voice. Thin arms wrap around his neck and hold him close to Phichit’s chest.

The tits are definitely padding.

“You stink like smoke,” Celestino mumbles in the tiger pattern dress, and holds back.


End file.
